


Bullseye

by auchterlonie



Series: An Agent's Life [8]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Healing, Love Conquers All, M/M, snowy days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 16:38:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auchterlonie/pseuds/auchterlonie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of Nemesis, Clint finds himself trying to mend the broken pieces and get his life back on target. Luckily, he has Phil to help him aim.</p><p>(Possibly could be read as a standalone, but references previous works in the series)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bullseye

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick little story that takes place after Nemesis. It references back to A Shot Through the Heart, which was one of the early stories in this series.
> 
> It is possible (I write hesitantly) that this could be read as a stand alone, but it does reference those previous two works.

A cold, sharp wind blew across the frozen ground, lifting snow in loose swirls that seemed to move endlessly through the rows of corn stalk stumps. A doe stepped cautiously from the distant wood line and looked across the field.

Clint watched her through his scope as she sniffed the air and hesitated. She kept one ear facing forward as she turned the other one back, listening for danger. She took a cautious step forward and then another. Satisfied of her safety, she moved up along the field’s periphery and used her snout to turn up an old cob or two.

He watched her take her time moving up the field before eventually turning back into the trees. She’d come and gone without ever knowing the danger that had lurked across the field. Clint could have taken her life with a single shot, fired from his perch a thousand yards away. He could have done it with his eyes shut, she was so close.

He was a master assassin, an arbiter of death. Her life was his choice; one for him to consider and make just as casually as the decision about which socks to put on in the morning. It was the very definition of power and it was a power he did not want.

He lifted his eyes from the scope and looked out across the field without it. The snow whipped up around him and bit into his face. He liked the feeling; the numbing pain of the cold. It felt right.

Movement across the field caught his eye. He looked back through the scope and spotted Phil slowly moving through the trees and out onto the field. He stopped at the edge, not far from where the deer had been, and looked across. He held up a hand to shield his eyes from the stinging snow as he scanned the distant trees. His eyes settled on Clint’s general direction. He waved once and then circled back, disappearing into the trees again.

Dinner was ready.

Clint dropped from his perch and slung the rifle across his back. He trudged across the field towards the trees and the roadway beyond. Phil had already driven away, leaving muddy tracks in the gravel. Clint smiled in appreciation; Phil knew he liked the walk.

Clint followed the tracks the eight miles home. The porch had been neatly swept of snow and the windows had fogged, betraying the warmth that awaited him inside. He stepped to the door mat, wiped his boots and paused. He closed his eyes.

The anticipation was always his favorite part in coming home. He hovered in front of the door and felt the slight warmth radiate out. He could hear the sounds of Leonard Cohen inside (Phil was such a nerd), and could smell dinner cooking away.  It was nothing and it was everything; the feel of home.

He stepped inside, shed his gear, and stowed his rifle. He moved to the kitchen and found Phil leaning against the counter and scowling at a tablet. He looked up when he saw Clint and shut it off. He set it down and very intentionally refused to look at it again, Clint noticed.

After a moment, Phil registered the look on Clint’s face and understood. He smiled kindly and turned to stir the sauce.

“Could you grab the beer?” he asked. “This just needs a minute more.”

Clint moved to the fridge and grabbed a pair of cold bottles. He opened them and sat at the table, watching Phil putter and fuss. He knew the sauce wasn’t the only thing that wasn’t quite ready.

For six weeks, Clint had marched off into the woods and fields around Pottsville, NY. He hadn’t touched his bow in that time, but he’d brought the rifle on each trek. Every morning, he’d head out, find the right spot, settle into a perch, and study his surroundings.  He’d take in air temp and wind speed, the rustle of leaves and the way sunlight bounced off the snow. He’d open the scope and select targets from all around him: the knot of a tree, the top of an old fence post, a silver gum wrapper stuck in a branch…

And every day he’d return without having fired a shot.

Phil always seemed to know and never pressed. He watched Clint leave each morning and went out to fetch him each night for dinner. Clint never told him where he was heading, much less where his perch would be – he rarely knew himself until he was there – yet Phil always seemed to know. He always found him and beckoned him home.

Phil put a plate in front of him and sat down to join. He made an exaggerated show of smelling the aroma and tucked in. It was an act Phil replayed nightly, enticing Clint to eat, and just as on every other night, Clint played his part; he sipped his beer, ate the food, and smiled in appreciation. He knew how lucky he was to have Phil. But he also knew things weren’t right – they hadn’t been for some time and he wasn’t sure they ever would be again.

But Phil believed they would be. Clint could see it in his face every morning. That unshakable faith was the only reason Clint even went out to those fields. He had to try, he figured. He had to find a way to shoot again, but every time he held the rifle, all he could think about were the things he’d done with it. He saw the faces of the men and women he’d claimed; some for S.H.I.E.L.D., some for Loki. The more he thought about them, the more he thought about how closely he’d come to taking Phil’s life as well.

He wiped something from his eye and brushed his fingers back across the scar on the side of his head. It was all that remained of the neural link S.H.I.E.L.D. had burned into him. They had controlled him just as Loki had done and had sent him to kill an unsuspecting Phil. All these weeks later, Clint still wasn’t sure if Phil knew about that, but it was all Clint could think about while he sat in his perches.

Clint was an arbiter of death, the decision to take or spare a life was his alone to make. Except for all the times when it hadn’t been.

He looked up at Phil and watched him finish his beer. Clint knew how closely he’d come to strangling the life out of him. A single command through the neural link and Clint had moved without hesitation against the only man who had ever mattered a damn in his life. The decision had been taken from him then, just as on too many other occasions. How could he ever fire another shot knowing the same might be true?

But then again, how could he not? Phil believed in him and wanted him to once again be The Hawkeye, the greatest marksman on Earth. But what if Clint could never fire another shot? How long could he go before that description no longer applied and Phil stopped believing? What would happen then?

Phil looked up and saw Clint staring at him. He smiled that kind smile that hid the sadness behind his eyes.

“It’ll happen, Clint. Just give it time,” he said, the confidence resonant in his voice.

Clint nodded. “I know,” he lied. “Maybe tomorrow.”

Phil nodded too, just as he did every night. “Tomorrow.”

***

Tomorrow was a miserable day.

The wind had picked up off the lake and blown in a cold wall of white that seemed to hide everything. For the briefest of moments, Clint considered not heading out. He rationalized how bad the conditions would be; poor visibility, high wind speed, the possibility of frost bite…

But in the end, Clint decided that not going felt too much like quitting. He didn’t want to walk down that dark road for fear he might never return.  He knew he had to go out and he had to try. He needed to do it for Phil. So he packed up his gear and went out into the storm.

It took him most of the day to find the right spot. He hiked for miles, moving from perch to perch until it finally felt right. He settled down and unpacked the rifle.

The scope revealed what he’d pretty much expected it would reveal: nothing. A great expanse of white spread out as far as he could see. So he sat and waited out the wind, letting the drifts swirl about him as they wished. Eventually the wind settled down and he could start to make out the amorphous grey shapes of trees. He readjusted his scope and started to scan them, searching for a tree knot to target.

A faint glint of red drew his attention to a low branch. At first, he thought it was a cardinal that was slightly obscured by the other branches and dismissed it, but something about it held his attention; something about it wasn’t quite right.

He readjusted the scope and looked again. It was indeed a red bird, just not a real one.

Clint lifted his eyes from the scope and looked out across the field. A smile played at the corner of his mouth as he recognized the target as his – the small, red popinjay target from the courtyard of his bar. Phil must have sent for it.

He looked at it again through the scope and studied every one of its dings and scrapes. It was a well used target – well loved, as he’d once corrected Phil. And it was the target he’d made Phil shoot the night they’d shared their first kiss. His smile broadened as he remembered.

_“That red target on the lower branch. I want you to try and hit it,” he’d said._

_“And why am I going to do that, exactly?” Phil had asked in return._

Phil had been in a bad place back then, even though he hadn’t realized it. He had been coming back from rehab and taking too much on himself all at once, trying to be perfect and invincible like he hadn’t just had his heart ripped from his chest. Clint and the others had tried giving him time to regain his rhythm, but watching him stumble and fail had been hard to do. Clint had wanted to do so much for him, but had somehow understood that that wouldn’t be the way to help him. He’d needed to find a way to help Phil without doing anything for him.

_“Don’t be contrary. Just hit the target.”_

Phil had missed twice before sending the little target spiraling off the branch. It had been the most basic of shots and wouldn’t have qualified Phil for any level of marksmen at S.H.I.E.L.D., but hitting it had made him smile. Phil had looked at him with joy in his eyes and it had melted Clint’s heart. He had known right then that he loved Phil.

_“I know how bad you want to be like you were again, but Phil listen to me. It’s gonna take time,” he’d said._

He remembered giving Phil some more advice, but it was all just a blur in his memory, leading up to that moment when he’d first touched Phil. He’d taken him into his arms and pulled him close, felt him tense and tremble and then relax into the kiss. He remembered the warmth of Phil’s mouth and the sweet taste of his lips. He remembered how it felt to have this broken, rigid man drop his guard and for one beautiful moment, trust another to take the lead.

Of all the things Clint had done in his life, finding that way into Phil’s heart was the moment he treasured most.

He made his way back to the house. Once again, the porch had been neatly swept clear of snow and the windows had fogged. He stepped to the mat, wiped his boots, and closed his eyes. He could hear Nina Simone’s melancholic voice and the smells of supper drifting through the door.

Phil looked up as he came into the kitchen. He smiled and studied Clint’s face for a moment. Clint moved to him and handed him the little popinjay. Phil looked down at it and ran his thumb across the fresh bullet hole in the target’s center. He looked up at Clint with joyful eyes and a broadening smile.

Before Phil could say anything, Clint reached out and pulled him close. He kissed him and felt the warmth of Phil’s embrace fill his soul and begin mending all the broken places inside. He knew he would always carry the memories of the lives he’d taken and he knew he’d still think of Phil every time he picked up the rifle, but he also knew that from here forward, it would be this moment he thought of.


End file.
